


Come Back to Me

by LilLayneeLoo



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Clark Kent Needs a Hug, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt Clark Kent, M/M, Panic Attacks, Protective Bruce Wayne, So Do I tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:22:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24264277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilLayneeLoo/pseuds/LilLayneeLoo
Summary: Clark has a dissociative episode. Bruce comforts him.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 6
Kudos: 175





	Come Back to Me

**Author's Note:**

> I have this fantasy that even though he's a huge grump, Bruce's experience with trauma just makes him this excellent caregiver, especially when it comes to confusing emotional issues.
> 
> Also I'm feeling blue today, so I wrote a blue fic. Sorry guys. These types of episodes happen to me, and they say write what you know, so here it is.

Bruce walked into the dimly lit study. It was late in the evening, around ten o’clock, and he had been working in the cave for several hours. 

Clark was sitting on the couch, his flannel unbuttoned and hanging loosely around his shoulders. He had on a blue t-shirt underneath, and a pair of jeans. He was embodying his Kansas heritage, and Bruce would have commented on it if it weren’t for the look in Clark’s eyes.

He was leaning on the arm rest, his hand balled into and fist and pushed into his cheek. Bruce could see a shine in Clark’s eyes behind his glasses, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“Clark?” Bruce asked, stepping cautiously into the room. Clark didn’t respond, but continued to stare blankly out the window. Bruce couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable. It was rare that he found Clark in such a deep moment; obviously something was on his husband’s mind. This happened quite often, but usually Clark would just come to Bruce and talk about it.

Tonight, it seemed, Clark had just spaced out. 

“Clark? Are you okay?” Bruce asked again, making his way toward the couch. The closer he got, the more obvious it was to him that something was wrong. Clark’s other hand was resting loosely on his lap, but as Bruce focused on it, he realized it was trembling. 

Very gently, Bruce lowered himself onto the cushion next to Clark and covered his husband’s shaking fingers. This touch seemed to snap Clark out of whatever trance he had been in.

Clark turned suddenly toward Bruce, his eyes still shining with unshed tears.

“Hi,” he said, his voice cracking softly. “Sorry, I…”

“Clark, sweetheart,” Bruce said. “What’s going on?”

“I…” Clark said, taking a deep breath. “I don’t really know.”

“What do you mean?” Bruce asked, his brow furrowing in concern.

Clark sighed and rubbed his face with his free hand.

“Nothing happened,” he said. “While I was on patrol. I did a few small things for people, and I helped the MFD get into a crashed car. Nobody died or anything; there were very few injuries even.”

“Okay,” Bruce said. “That’s a good thing.”

“I know,” Clark said. “So I don’t know why I feel this...emptiness. I feel hollow, almost, like the part of me inside is somewhere else right now, and I’m this...shell...of a person. Not really me.”

Bruce didn’t know how to respond at first. It sounded a lot like Clark was having some sort of episode.

“Where are you then?” Bruce asked, trying to get Clark to talk it through. “If you’re not here, with me, where does it feel like you are?”

“I don’t know,” Clark said, looking down at his and Bruce’s hands still intertwined. “But I feel like I need to search for myself, or something. Like I need to unzip this shell, and once I do I’ll know who I am…”

He sighed and pulled his hand away from Bruce, standing up and walking toward the window.

“I know that sounds so stupid,” he said, shaking his head. “But it’s like I’m on the outside of myself, looking in. I look at my hands and I know they’re mine, but they don’t feel  _ correct _ .”

Bruce stood too, instinctively wanting to go to Clark, but then realized that he might want his space. He took a moment, then spoke.

“What would you like me to do, Clark?” Bruce said, sincerely. “Is there any way that I can help?”

Clark sighed and pressed his cheek against the glass. He didn’t say anything, but stood there for a moment. Bruce watched him, keeping his distance. 

The window fogged as hot tears cascaded down Clark’s cheeks. Very slowly, Clark’s breathing became more erratic, picking up in speed and depth. 

Bruce maintained his distance, watching as an inexplicable wave of pain crashed over his husband. He wanted nothing more than to comfort him; reach for him and take it all away…

...but as he watched him, he realized he knew what was happening to Clark. He recognized all of the symptoms of a dissociative episode; a form of  _ panic attack _ . To his knowledge, Clark had never experienced anything like this before. 

_ Bruce had _ . 

It wasn’t something that happened often, and even less so as he grew into adulthood. His parents’ murder had started it all, and the topic of family was a sort of trigger for him for many years. He often found that he would feel out of body when his peers talked about their parents; or he would feel as though he had never had any, like the memory of them had been mysteriously wiped from his mind. Sometimes he would forget who he was and where he was, or he would have negative emotional fits of anger, sadness, and loneliness.

Bruce had never known what he needed to end these episodes, but Alfred would always simply stay relatively close by and just make it clear that if Bruce figured it out, he was there to help.

That’s what Bruce was trying to do, despite his aching heart.

Clark stayed by the window, breathing heavily and crying light tears. He did not sob, he did not cry out; but just stood in quiet confusion and despair as his mind tried to process whatever was happening to him.

“I’m here, Clark,” Bruce whispered softly. “I’m here, and I love you.”

Eventually, Clark’s breathing began to return to a more normal pace, but his tears continued to flow. He pulled his face away from the glass and turned to Bruce, suddenly and silently stepping forward. He opened his arms and said nothing, but Bruce knew what he needed and crossed to him immediately.

Bruce wrapped himself tenderly around his husband’s body, pressing Clark’s cheek into his neck and rubbing a flat hand against his back.

As soon as Clark was in his arms, Bruce felt his shoulders slouch and his breathing hitch. Agonized sobs were wracking his body, and there was a growing patch of wet on Bruce’s shoulder.

Bruce stayed silent for several minutes, tenderly rubbing Clark’s back and allowing his husband to deflate in his arms. Bruce pushed Clark’s hips closer toward his body, and lifted upward, taking most of the weight from him. Bruce started to sway in the lamplight, rocking Clark ever so gently.

It was something else Alfred had always done for him.

As his sobs began to subside, without pulling away from Bruce, Clark shifted so that he was floating just far enough above the ground to rest his feet on the tops of Bruce’s. 

Bruce smiled lightly into the empty room, squeezing Clark just a little tighter to his body. He continued to rock his husband, swaying in place as they danced Clark’s tears away.

A few soft kisses were pressed into Bruce’s neck as Clark’s cries turned to hiccups, then into slow, deep breaths.

“Thank you, Bruce,” Clark murmured. “I think I’ll be okay.” 

Bruce didn’t loosen his grip and continued swaying. He pressed a gentle kiss to Clark’s forehead.

“Take as long as you need. I’m always here...” Bruce said. “...and no matter where you go, I’ll always help you come back to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always very much appreciated. Thanks for stopping by!


End file.
